


Enharmonic Intervals

by clayair



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Calm Down Erik, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles is a Teacher, Erik Has Feelings, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mutual Pining, author's throwback to highschool band, charles is director of a high school orchestra, cringe as author tries to write song lyrics, erik is in a BAND, meddling students, music school name drops, romance written by an aromantic asexual author, sexy debates about classical vs rock music, so much pining its practically a conifer forest, the things charles does for his sister, violin and electric guitar duets? how do they work??, watch in horror as author goes on tangents about classical music history for years, who ISN'T in this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-06 12:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4221033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clayair/pseuds/clayair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles Xavier graduated from the Royal Academy of Music in London a virtual virtuoso, having received the London Music Rising Star Award and numerous other commendations for violin, piano, and composition--so no one expected him to end up conducting for an under-funded orchestra at a Chicago public high school.  But Charles loves his job, and it keeps him close to his half-sister Raven, a freelance musician.  When his beloved sibling needs violin sheet music for songs from the up-and-coming rock band Mutant Brotherhood in order to impress a prospective girlfriend, Charles is only happy to comply.  However, he wasn't expecting to become hopelessly wrapped up in the band's affairs, and certainly not its moody and argumentative main vocalist.<br/>In which classroom phone rules are broken, rock artists and water do not mix well, eardrums barely survive through senior year, sleazy managers cause problems, pining musicians write songs about one another, a guitar becomes a projectile, and maybe modern popular music isn't as entirely an abomination as Charles previously thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Franz Liszt, Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 in C-Sharp Minor

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the result of multiple factors. 
> 
> The first is an attempt to rekindle my love of writing, which has been warped into a sort of fear by certain nameless English teachers.  
> The second is an altogether empty summer, schedule-wise. I have far too much time on my hands at the moment.  
> The third is a pervasive obsession with the Cherik ship, and a story idea that simply would not allow itself to be dropped.  
> There is also a clause in the book of Band Kid Code that compels me to have fictional characters live through the tomfoolery I experienced as a young flutist and an orchestra member in general.  
> And I won't discount the extremely motivating nature of the never-ending search for approval from strangers on the internet.
> 
> This is my first Cherik fanfiction, and my second ever fanfiction if you don't count a 3k oneshot. Hopefully it will be my first ever COMPLETED fanfiction. I promise to try my very hardest in continuing to persist and update, but I do sort of have deep-set emotional issues when it comes to writing, so patience would be most appreciated.
> 
> A note on smut: I'm a 17 y-o virgin aromantic asexual. Any and all sexual content will be pretty vague for that reason. I've read smut in my time, so it's not like I'm not versed in the areas of sexytimes, I just feel like anything I'd write would feel second-hand and artificial.
> 
> Enharmonic Interval: Two notes that differ in name only. The notes occupy the same position. For example: C sharp and D flat.

The sharp rapping of the baton against the ancient music stand cut through the cacophony of nonsensical noise created by a third of the students barely getting through the final measure, half of them stumbling over the notes to no avail, and a solid four kids not even trying to get it right.  Charles cleared his throat and rubbed the bridge of his nose as the various instruments trailed off to near silence (Robert Drake was snorting into his hand with poorly-concealed laughter and Alex Summers dropped his mute to the floor with a clang that would have made Charles wince if he wasn’t accustomed to loud noise by necessity).  Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the lip of the stand, he surveyed the young musicians in the room.

“So, this is why we practice a piece for weeks before performing,” Charles said with mustered joviality, to a smattering of giggles from the orchestra.  Some of the new freshman additions hunkered their shoulders abashedly while the elder students, used to their good-humored conductor, grinned widely up to the podium.  After allowing himself a brief chuckle, Charles adopted a more serious tone. “But for a first-time sightreading, that wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been.”

This was true; Charles had seen more than his fair share of trainwrecks the first day a new piece was introduced to a class.  He did have quite a few pointers for the group right off the bat, though.

“Okay so who can do me the honor of telling me what ‘ _andante mesto’_ means?”

A hand shot up.

“Yes, Miss Grey?”

Jean Grey was an incredibly promising violinist, and Charles had loved teaching her in the three years she’d spent thus far at Fortin Preparatory High School (preparing for what, no one was entirely certain, but the more creative and pessimistic students to pass through the grimy halls had some ideas), relishing her obvious love for music and appreciation for his first favorite instrument.  She was a good anchor for many of the more reticent children and often mastered pieces weeks earlier than her classmates in order to help others who were struggling, both within and outside her section.  God knew how she could somehow translate advice for the violin into tips for trombone, but she did it, and Charles was eternally grateful; his hands were more than full with instructing the other hormonally-supercharged adolescents toting what were often treated as glorified noisemakers.  

Sitting up straighter, Jean recited the answer with confidence.  “Moderately slow and sad.”

Charles nodded in her direction.  “Exactly: moderately slow and sad. This first part is the ‘ _lassan_ ’--or more accurately, ‘ _lassú_ ’--which is the slow section of the _csárdás_ , a Hungarian folk dance that Liszt channeled the form of in his rhapsodies,” Realizing that most of this was going over the heads of his students, the majority of whom weren’t as boyishly enthusiastic as he was about the parts of music that didn’t involve playing, Charles nipped the prospective hour-long tangent in the bud and got back to the point.  “How did we just play it?”

Adjusting her saxophone in her lap to raise a hand, Jubilation Lee (and drat, she’d insisted upon the nickname ‘Jubilee’ at the start of the school year three weeks ago, yet Charles still couldn’t help but maintain formalities in his thoughts) called out.  “Fast and crazy.”

Another chuckle spilled from Charles’ lips, already endlessly fond of the freshman’s boundless energy.  “‘Fast and crazy’ indeed,” standing up straight, he shuffled the sheet music around on the stand, before stepping lightly off the podium--little more than a repurposed crate--to pace back and forth at the front of the room, as he was wont to do.  “Remember, the tempo starts off at just 80 beats per minute--circle that on the page if you have to--and it should have a somber, formal and stately tone.  At measure nine we have ‘ _l’acompagnamento pesante_ ’, which means…”

A quick gesture to where Jean sat in the front prompted her to answer; “a heavy, ponderous accompaniment.”

“Yes--so maybe a little less fanfare-esque when you come in, Mister Drake,” smiling jokingly at the baritone player, who responded with a mock salute and a _yes sir Prof. sir_ , Charles clapped his hands before hopping back onto the crate.  Addressing the room at large, he picked up the baton with a flourish; “All right then: second try. Let's try to at least get all the way to measure twenty-six where the key change starts.  Ready? One-and two-and one-and two--”

The anticipatory silence was broken by the shrill wailing of a flute. 

“You come in at measure nine, Mister Cassidy!” Charles admonished in a sing-song trill, arms frozen before the drop.  “And the starting key is the C-sharp major triad, not G-sharp minor.”

Sean Cassidy gave a sheepish smirk, freckled cheeks staining a bashful crimson while his peers snickered.  While his lung capacity and stiff upper lip enabled him to reach the upper octaves that earned him the title of “Banshee”, the sophomore lacked any sort of impulse control, and let it be said that no one, however learned in the raucous nature of high school orchestra practices, was particularly welcoming of a sonic blast to the eardrums unprepared.  Charles, after letting out a sigh overly-dramatic only in part on purpose, rearranged himself to start the count-off once more.  God help him, but he loved his job.

“Third try.  One-and two-and one-and two-and--!”

 

 


	2. Brotherhood (single)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. Well obviously my estimation of a quick upload for the second chapter turned out to be utterly wrong, and for that I must apologize. I don't think I have much of an excuse, either. Sorry. I promise to try and be more frequent with updates from here on out, and also maybe make chapters longer? Maybe??
> 
> Anyhoo, here we go!
> 
> P.S. I'm awful at songwriting so this is a universe where people like terrible lyrics for some odd reason or another

     "One, two, three, four!"

     The sound of the band exploding into life behind his back was enough to light a fire in Erik's chest, heat taking to his blood like flame to oil. He could feel himself slipping into the rhythm with ease, fingers flying up and down the neck of the guitar with passionate fervor as he shifted his weight back and forth on his feet: totally in the zone. Fire pulsed through his veins with every beat of his heart, pushing into the bellows of his lungs where it fought to escape, crackling, hissing and spitting.

      Currently, the band was off-tour, thus making this just a routine practice, but then again, Erik didn't believe in "just" anything. He pushed to make every jam session as successful as possible and squeezed every meeting with both hands until it choked out the results he wanted. At this point his fellow band members just regarded his pitbull-esque tendencies with fond exasperation or even teasing (though Emma had done _that_ part from the beginning).

       However, this practice's intensity fed off not only the usual tenacity but a particular brand of hatred; Mutant Brotherhood's manager Sebastian Shaw acted as a special kind of gasoline when it came into contact with its lead singer's furnace. Not to say that Erik was the only band member who disliked the lean, cold-eyed man--in fact, pretty much the entire group hated him to some extent. Shaw was amicably and unanimously agreed to be the inspiration for the song "Hellfire" (for which the lyrics were along the lines of hoping a certain unnamed individual burned to death in the ruins of his own empire). No, Shaw was not even remotely well-liked. But regardless of--or perhaps due to--the band's sudden burst of popularity, they still relied heavily on Shaw: something he saw fit to constantly remind them of. On this particular occasion of jeering taunts Erik had reached the end of his admittedly short fuse, frustrated that he needed the help of this slimey bastard and on the verge of explosion. Janos stopped him just short of punching Shaw in his stupid face, but Erik had felt how tight the keyboardist's grip was around his wrist as their manager smirked, mouth like the ugly slash of a knife across his features. If their unofficial group peacekeeper was trembling with barely-concealed anger, they definitely were going to need a "therapy" practice session.

       That's what this was: a collective exhale of the band's fury and aggression.

       The others wove around Erik's rage-fueled melody with the ease of familiarity, playing off of and challenging him in a way that no other group of people would dare. Anyone else would have cowered under his burning glares and retreated from his snapped retorts. Not these people, though; they met him head on and refused to back down--more often than not actually pushing back. Emma's thudding bassline sparred against his own notes with the friendly competition of two boxers who had met in the ring countless times, and as they exchanged a glance, her piercing silver-blue eyes could have cut diamond. Angel beat out a tattoo of frenetic rhythms, arms and drumsticks moving so fast that Erik's eyes could barely track the movement, giving her the appearance of a hummingbird with wild hair and a coy smile. Azazel's guitar wailed and screamed, almost demonic when paired with the crazy grin that threatened to split his face and threw his scar into sharp relief. Confidence exuded from his stance as it would a fencing master. Quiet Janos shed his reserve like a chrysalis with a flood of notes and a flurry of no-longer-shaking fingers across alabaster keys.

       Their music fell into place like a well-oiled machine--or maybe the seamless hunt of a pack of wolves was more accurate. Despite Erik's encompassing anger, the singer felt a pull of gratitude and pride towards his makeshift family before plowing into the lyrics.

    _I look out on this sun-baked land,_

_The rising smoke, the blood-soaked sand;_

_We fight for change but all it's wrought is hatred._

_I call for you in a voice that breaks,_

_But you turn away, and that's all it takes;_

_We burn this place to ash like it's not sacred._

 

_They've played their war games with our lives,_

_But it's not the Neanderthal who survives._

 

_Hand in broken hand_

_As our birthplace and out homeland vanish_

_From our eyes for good;_

_This is where we stand_

_With the agonizing liberty_

_Of our mutant brotherhood._

       The ingrained words were as familiar to Erik as his own name now, and they practically sprang off his tongue. He flies into the second verse, hearing Emma's voice coil around his in harmony as they return to the chorus and chasing each note out of his lungs with violent cry from his instrument.  As they finished the final chords of the song, he stood panting in the sudden cessation of sound and motion from the stage, inhaling and exhaling deeply in the seconds of stillness before wiping sweat off his brow with his free hand and adopting a more relaxed position. Baring his teeth in one of his signature shark smiles, Erik's gaze traveled over the faces of his friends--equally shining and flushed (with the exception of Emma, who seemed to lack sweat glands and repel anything that could damage her flawless complexion), but adorned with matching grins. For a minute or so they simply beamed at each other, heaving chests gradually slowing to a normal pace.

       "Daaamn," Angel crowed, combing her fingers through the mess of her black mane. "Best therapy session in _weeks_."

       Azazel nodded. "Sort of wish that had been our recording for the song, da?" He swung his guitar strap over his head and then set about methodically unplugging his amp chords. "Think we can convince iTunes to give us a redo?"

       Janos huffed, his equivalent of the barking laugh Erik released.

       Disassembling his own setup, Erik shook his head, but not without mirth. Relaxation had eased its way into his frame. "We could call it the ' _Fuck Our Asshole Manager_ Edition'," he mused, teeth flashing again.

       That managed to get a chuckle out of their resident ice queen, who snorted in an undignified manner--word of which would not leave the room unless the speaker wanted an unplanned splenectomy--before shutting her bass guitar case with two resonating snaps.

       "Unfortunately, I don't think that would get past aforementioned Asshole Manager," Emma sighed, honestly bemoaning the fact, though it didn't show in her joking tone nor on her carefully neutral face. Years of knowing the woman, however, allowed Erik and the others to detect the pout in the minute change in the line of her back and the extra vehemence with which she flicked her shining blonde hair over her shoulder upon standing. Angel tutted, then jokingly reached to put a sympathetic arm around Emma's shoulders, which she neatly side-stepped. "Nuh-uh. No touchy, Salvadore. You're a disgusting sweat monster right now, even if your gorgeously toned arms _are_ the envy of the half the human population."

        The drummer happily flexed her right bicep, patting it affectionately with her other hand. "You know it," she chirped. Angel then dropped her arms, shrugging. "But whatever you say, _reina_ , you're still missing out."

        "Yeah, yeah," Emma said, putting on her numerous jangly bracelets so that when she waved the younger woman off, it was with sparkles and a truly impressive clatter of metal chains and bands. She then slipped her white vest back on, pulling a hair tie and a couple bobby pins from the pockets and pinning her golden waves up with swift and practiced motions. Instantly, Emma looked effortlessly composed despite the aggressive playing they'd just finished. "Save the guns for your boyfriend. I can practically see him steaming."

        Slinging her arm around Janos's waist, Angel pecked said boyfriend on the cheek. "Nah, J's good at sharing--he wouldn't deny the world the pleasure of these fantastic triceps."

        Janos hummed what could be interpreted as an affirmative, resigned himself to a sticky sweaty hug, and continued trying to fold up his keyboard with some difficulty now that he was being clung to.

        Emma made a noncommittal noise in response, picking up her smartphone and flicking lazily through her emails. "Anyway, I'm off to get some fresh air and shitty coffee, if anyone cares to join me." She turned expectantly to the others.

        Azazel shook his head, "I prefer not to torture myself with that Starbucks crap you masochists seem to like," he sniffed, accent thickening with his disdain. "But you should get Erik out of here before Shaw can show up and ruin his happy glow."

        An assenting grunt emerged from Erik's lips as he straightened from his bent position over the amps, hefting his own guitar case. He didn't even resent the 'happy glow' comment, content to bask in the exhilaration from a fantastic play-through and enjoy the warm looseness of his limbs--the tension having slipped out of his muscles mid-song. No way he was letting that get spoiled.

        "Good idea," he growled. Throwing on a jacket, Erik dug out his car keys and strode over to where the blonde was waiting by the back exit doors.  "Quick, let's leave before I see his fucking face and want to kill him all over again."

        Giving Erik a once-over, Emma crinkled her nose in distaste. "First: deodorant."


End file.
